


All That Remains

by TomorrowsHero



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Crisis of Faith, Dr Ziegler does not give up ever, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hanzo gets owned, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Spirit Dragons for everyone, Zenyatta can only take so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomorrowsHero/pseuds/TomorrowsHero
Summary: When Genji was broken, Zenyatta was there to pick him up.When Genji went off to fight the good fight, Zenyatta was there to fight with him.When Genji died, Zenyatta was left behind to crumble.





	1. Mushin

**Author's Note:**

> If memory serves, there was a Genyatta week a while back. This is a little late for that, but hopefully it's enjoyable regardless.

There was a funeral, of course. Not a grand one, but grand enough, considering the resources available. Zenyatta was grateful for that much.

Everybody was there – even Torbjorn and Zarya, who had swallowed their distaste to mourn the loss of their comrade. Some of them took turns giving speeches in Genji’s name. Lena spoke of all the places they had visited: New York, Numbani, Hanamura, and the list went on, each item with a story attached. Angela looked closer to tears than ever before – Genji was gone, and with the man she’d brought back to life forever beyond her reach, what was once a victory for her was gone now as well. Even Jack stood solemn in front, and gave a short speech that somehow managed to touch everyone. The years between service hadn’t taken everything from him, it seemed.

Winston spoke, and Zenyatta didn’t listen. Instead, the monk turned to Hanzo, seated next to him in the front row. The older dragon didn’t move – hadn’t moved at all, Zenyatta believed – and his face, somber but still rigid and controlled as ever, added to his statuesque likeness. He had always been the perfect Shimada. Poised, dignified, and unruled by emotion or impulse. No wonder Genji found him so dull in youth.

Zenyatta said nothing, turning inward toward his thoughts. Genji was dead – killed far too suddenly in a raid against Talon that was already crumbling. Zenyatta had no idea how the others retrieved his body in the rush to retreat, but if nothing else he was grateful that he could see Genji one final time. At least now, Genji could rest among friends and not enemies.

A gentle touch to the shoulder plate roused him. Zenyatta turned to Lucio on his other side, for once no longer the picture of cheer. “You still wanna go?” The DJ asked. Zenyatta felt the gaze of everyone else upon him, heavy with expectation and some levels of understanding. He was not the only one here who lost a friend today. He was not the only one here who had lost something. That link between had always drawn them together, after all. It was what allowed a place for Genji, when he was still so young and lost.

And now, it seemed, was Zenyatta’s time to fill that place.

The omnic murmured a “my thanks” to Lucio and stood, making his way to the podium. He crossed in front of the coffin and his vision fell upon the man inside. Genji’s mask was off, allowing Zenyatta to drink in the sight of Genji’s face. He always looked so young, Zenyatta mused, even as time and the scars and blemishes of the world added themselves onto him. A stray lock of black hair dyed green draped down over Genji’s scarred face, and Zenyatta did not dare move it. As meditative as Genji had become over the years, he would have enjoyed seeing that unkempt part of himself remain.

Zenyatta saw the expression of peace on his pupil’s face and it struck him hard. Genji had been just another lost soul when Zenyatta found him, at odds with himself and struggling against his own existence, and so Zenyatta had reached out to him. It took time and trust, but Genji accepted his care and under Zenyatta’s teachings he had flourished beyond anything that either master or student had believed him to become. He’d come so far to overcome that fight against himself. To find his own definition of peace, the one that suited him best.

Now in death, it seemed he’d found another – one thrust upon him.

With a hand forced into steadiness, Zenyatta cupped his hand around his student’s face, desperate to burn one last touch into his memories. At the touch of Genji’s cold skin against his metal hand, Zenyatta stiffened, and his mala constricted around him. This was not the peace he’d led Genji toward, the one that had allowed him to become so strong and bright. Zenyatta couldn’t bring himself to call it peace at all. Anger burned underneath his serene exterior, something bitter and ugly, neither familiar nor unknown.

Genji was not the first brother he’d seen depart for the Iris before their time. Zenyatta reminded himself that Genji was with Mondatta once again, and at peace within a better place.

A place beyond Zenyatta’s mortal reach.

In time, the monk came back to himself, mala resting once again upon his shoulders. He turned to face his new brothers and sisters, and with the calm he learned through years of watching Mondatta, he held his hands before him, fingertips pressing gently together, and he spoke.

“Thank you, my friends, for being here in this difficult time. I have no doubt that Genji would be enthused to see so many people here to pay him heed,” Zenyatta began, a bit of humor dancing through his words. “My first meeting with Genji began with a sword at my neck – his own. The villagers found him by the side of the road, frozen and in poor health, and brought him to the Shambali for treatment. I remained at his side for the days he spent unconscious, caring for him as best I could, until one day he awoke and drew his sword upon me.” The monk chuckled. “I bore him no ill will, for he was confused and frightened.

“I cared for him through the days after, and spoke to him about the Shambali and our ways of life. For some time, Genji was reluctant to listen, much less to an omnic. There was much anger within him, and I sought to understand why.” Zenyatta’s gaze passed momentarily to Hanzo, who seemed to glare back as though accused. “Although he would not speak of it for many days, in time Genji opened his mind to me and my brothers. I became his teacher, and his friend.” Zenyatta’s voice softened. “He began at odds with himself, but I watched him become strong and find peace within his existence. He began in discord and yet harmony blossomed within him, and Genji blossomed as well.”

Zenyatta paused, for once devoid of words. Genji… he could have spoken about Genji forever. He _wanted_ to. He wanted to tell of every moment he had spent meditating by Genji’s side, and every word they had spoken to each other. The memories were all there, inside Zenyatta’s head, as crisp and clear as when they’d first happened, and if he could not have Genji anymore than he would make do with time, enough time to tell every detail of every memory they had created together in their years of intertwined life.

Zenyatta could have spoken for hours about nothing but Genji’s face glowing in the sunset, or his touch at night under soft blankets. He wanted the words to convey those feelings to everybody in the world, to remember Genji as he would never forget him. He cursed that there were no such words with which to bring those memories to life, and that those memories were all he would ever have from this moment on.

Just as Zenyatta’s silence had reached the point where the others had begun to look at each other with worry, he spoke again. “To know Genji… was a privilege, and the highest honor I have ever received,” Zenyatta said, with a heavy voice. “But I know that he has gone to merge with the Iris, to an existence greater than mere mortality. Even if-” Zenyatta’s voice crackled and stopped, and before him his audience stared shocked back at him. This was not right. _None_ of this, Zenyatta knew, could be right.

“Even if he is lost to us in this world,” Zenyatta finished. He turned and walked away from the podium without further conclusion, casting a final, forlorn glance at the lifeless body within it. He held onto his memories, for he knew that now they were all that would ever remain.

-

The casket lowered into the ground, sinking down into the earth and coming to rest below their feet. The gravestone was a traditional Japanese monument, with flowers ordered down the sides and incense burning in the middle. Genji’s name had been carved into the stone, in characters Zenyatta recognized from a time long ago. He had walked in on Genji practicing his calligraphy, and his student had taken the time to show him some of the art. He’d written his name, _Shimada Genji_ , in kanji that danced in ink across the paper.

Zenyatta had sworn never to forget the sight. Now, he knew he never needed to worry. If he ever did forget, he could come and read it himself.

No one truly wanted to claim Genji’s possessions for themselves. He owned little regardless, and none of them felt any strong claim on the scant belongings decorating his quarters. An agreement was made to leave his room as he kept it in life. A few of the others volunteered to keep it clean, as did Zenyatta; they agreed to work out a schedule at another time.

-

Zenyatta meditated outside, floating above the ground, his mala charged and humming with spiritual energy. He felt the breeze flow across his plating. He heard it rustle the trees and scatter the rocks. He allowed its presence to collide with his own, and he mingled with it as though greeting a familiar face.

It didn’t feel quite as he remembered it. It didn’t meet him and pass through him as he knew it should have. It didn’t give him the sense of warmth and connection to the world – his world – that he had long come to expect.

Although not by much, Zenyatta wavered. For a split second, the flowing within his spirit went mute. The humming of his mala stuttered, and they sank the smallest bit out of alignment before righting themselves.

Although it was not by much, Zenyatta noticed. He was the master of his own form and soul, and for him, such disruptions were a rarity. The days following Mondatta’s death were the last time he remembered himself falling out of balance, the death of his former mentor leaving him distraught for weeks on end, vulnerable to discord slipping into the newfound cracks within his soul.

Those were painful days, filled with uncertainty. Zenyatta could not doubt that the coming days would be much like them, but what he had overcome in the past he knew he could overcome in the present.

Zenyatta’s legs uncurled as he sank back down to the earth, and his feet met the ground once more. Perhaps now would be an ideal time to pay his respects.

-

He arrived at his student’s grave to find that he was not alone. Before the stone marker, Hanzo knelt in _seiza_ , eyes closed and head bowed in clear signs of mourning. The elder Shimada’s bow, cast aside, rested on the ground to his left, and before him laid a bowl, a small stand, and a single sparrow’s feather. He clutched sticks of incense, burning in wisps of soft white smoke. Zenyatta recognized this ritual; Genji told him once that his brother burned incense for him once every year, upon the anniversary of his “death.”

When Hanzo spoke, it was sudden and without forewarning. “I did not expect you to join me.” he said. He rested the incense upon the stand and straightened once more.

Zenyatta walked up beside him and sank into a _seiza_ of his own. “Your brother was a fine man,” he said. “There are many people here who would pay him their respects.”

Hanzo took a while to respond. “Many people have not joined me in this place. Only a few have bothered,” he said, sounding almost bitter.

“They walk their own paths, and address their sorrow in their own ways,” Zenyatta reassured him. “There is a time to mourn those who have been lost, but time yet flows onward. To dwell too long in the past is to forfeit your present.”

Hanzo didn’t respond, and his face hardened. Zenyatta did not say more, for that time had passed as well. The monk reached into his pocket and removed an incense stick of his own, unburned, and a lighter. He flicked the latter on and stuck the incense into the flame, and it produced reedy, white wisps of smoke as it burned. Zenyatta pocketed the lighter and held the incense so that the burning end neared his face. He couldn’t smell the smoke as the wood burned, but the sight of it was enough.

He thought of Genji, his pupil ascended from the mortal plane, dwelling forevermore within the Iris. He remembered one part of their lives, where two of them meditated together before the sunset back in the monastery, and then another where they fought side-by-side. Zenyatta’s orbs struck with a long-practiced aim, crippling, harming, and healing as he required them. Genji hit the ground nearby in a run and didn’t break stride as he ripped his sword from its scabbard and swung it to beat away a flurry of gunfire, before disappearing into a green streak of light and darting away.

Zenyatta remembered the pride he felt watching Genji grow so strong, underneath his tutelage but using his own power. He remembered the concern he felt during their first interactions, a feeling that only grew as Genji attempted to force him away, and the joy at being accepted by him at last.

Joy. Genji always brought him so much joy. It came from him, his presence, everything he learned and accomplished, and the man he became. The sun rose in the morning, and set in the evening, and Genji stood by Zenyatta’s side the whole time bringing him _joy_.

But today the sun had risen and Genji-

The incense broke with a soft crack between Zenyatta’s fingers. Shortly after the fact, when the blackened end tumbled to the earth and snuffed out as it struck the dirt below, Zenyatta noticed. He looked at the broken end still in his grasp, then to Hanzo, who returned his gaze with… not quite concern, but surprise at the unexpected.

Zenyatta turned away from him, and toward the fallen piece. Shame constricted him as though it possessed a physical form, and his mala twitched erratically around him. He took a moment to fight it back and reclaim his serenity, a moment slightly too long for his liking, and then took both ends of the incense in his hands and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time,” he said, bowing in respect to Hanzo as though nothing has happened. He turned back to Genji’s grave one more time, and murmured a quiet prayer for his student’s peace within the Iris before he left.

He would not return to his student’s resting place for some time.

-

It was Zenyatta’s turn again to clean Genji’s room, for what little cleaning the job entailed. From where Zenyatta stood in the doorway, he saw a potted bonsai tree resting in the corner, a wall hanging above – a scroll covered in Japanese characters, a poem of some sort– and a window to the side of that, pointing out toward the ocean far below. A small bookshelf stood against the wall to Zenyatta’s right, and to his left a sleeping mat rested on the floor, above which Genji’s katana hung sheathed upon the wall.

Holding rag in hand, Zenyatta began dusting the bookshelf, and then the floor, lifting the mat to reach the space underneath it. He watered the bonsai tree until the soil was properly wet, then ensured the scroll and sword on the walls weren’t hanging out of alignment. It hardly took fifteen minutes before he’d done all that he needed to.

Although Zenyatta was sure that much of his pupil’s character before and after his mentorship remained the same, apparently the years spent with only monks for company instilled a sense of minimalism within Genji that persisted after he left the monastery. Zenyatta never saw fit to criticize him for it, but looking around the small, nearly empty room, he suddenly wished that his student had left more behind. More things that people could see and remember him by.

He fought back the sense of emptiness and looked up at the katana on the wall. Even sheathed, Zenyatta knew it well; how it looked and what it was capable of. He’d seen Genji wield it with beyond surgical precision, and witnessed him become one with the dragon inside of him, channeling it into the blade and fighting alongside it – wielding the blade not as a weapon but as an extension of Genji himself. When Genji took that blade in hand, Zenyatta could never see him as human or machine, or anything less, but instead something far superior to either.

He was simply… _Genji_. In his purest and truest self.

It may have been the greatest samurai who allowed his sword to rust in its scabbard, but such a glorious weapon deserved a better fate.

Zenyatta tore his gaze away from his student’s greatest legacy and hurried out of the small, cold room. He couldn’t stand to be in it any longer; every second he spent inside reminded him of what the world had lost, what _he_ had lost. It was an empty room that held nothing anymore, and he couldn’t stop himself from feeling the same.

A voice intruded from somewhere nearby. “Hey, Zen!”

Zenyatta couldn’t stop himself. “ _What?!_ ” It came out as a harsh snap.

He came back to his senses and saw Lucio, hand raised in a friendly greeting but looking as though he’d been gutted.

Zenyatta’s inner turmoil vanished in an instant, leaving him numb. He mumbled a quiet apology and ran the other way. Lucio called something behind him, but Zenyatta forced himself not to listen.

-

Zenyatta meditated in the garden, trying to erase the darkness that had been encroaching upon his thoughts.

The past couple of weeks had been difficult. Since knowledge of Zenyatta’s… _loss of control_ had spread, everybody treated him different now, as though he were a lost and crying child as opposed to the enlightened monk that he was. Several of them – Dr. Ziegler, Reinhardt, Ana, and Lena, to name a few – had offered to ‘listen, if he needed to talk.’ Hana no longer talked trash at him during their gaming sessions, and Lucio somehow became even friendlier, inviting him constantly to hang out or to hear a new song he’d been working on. Everywhere he went, Zenyatta could feel somebody watching him from the corner of their eyes, in case he needed help again.

Even Torbjorn’s vocal opposition to his presence had largely ceased (they were still far from close, but the diminutive Swede was holding his tongue now).

Zenyatta knew that it all came from a place of love and caring. He was grateful that so many people were worried about his state of being. And yet, the same thing made him angry as well. It wasn’t a crime to need help or to give it to another, but had he truly fallen so far, to warrant such pity? This was not who he was, someone so vulnerable – perhaps long ago, but he had grown beyond it.

Zenyatta pulled himself away from his thoughts, saving them for another time. His mala, which had sunken down toward his neck a moment ago, rose back up to eye level around his head.

He felt the Iris around him, golden and divine, and he sank into it. His six arms unfolded into existence, touching that which could not be touched, and the universe around Zenyatta slowed as his focus spread out into it. He reached out to the wind, feeling its cool breath upon him even though it had slowed to silence. The ground reached out to him in kind, and he accepted its stalwart support, its ancient and eternal presence. He took in the vibrant life of the trees and the grass, allowing it to coil into him and share both its fleeting youth and its experiences of time gone by.

Zenyatta’s focus reached further, up to the sun. He took it with ease into a single palm, and then a fingertip as he spread himself even further. He expanded across solar systems, then galaxies, and out to the furthest reaches of the universe. The celestial bodies within him sang a symphony each their own, joining together in the most delicate of ways – as soft and fragile as a distant memory.

And then Zenyatta pressed further, and all that was collapsed into a single point in an endless golden space. The Iris embraced Zenyatta, wrapping him in infinity, and he allowed himself to drift within as a leaf on a gentle breeze.

He heard a voice, distant yet within his very self, and he reached out to it. The sweet smell of cherry blossoms wafted by, followed by the whispering smoke of incense. Cold snow. The singing of a blade. Light. Soft tones of sound. A dragon’s cry.

_A flash of green._

Zenyatta reached out toward the voice, far away yet not far at all, and the sensations dimmed. The Iris grew darker, and suddenly Zenyatta could no longer hear the voice. He reached out for it again – one more time, just _one_ – but it was gone.

_Genji!_

Zenyatta thrust himself outward again, desperate, but as the Iris began to fade away he could feel himself being pulled back.

_GENJI!_

He didn’t want to go. He needed more _time._ But then the Iris disappeared, and Zenyatta was returned to a colder world.

_Genji…_

-

Zenyatta awoke, lying on his back against the earth. He didn’t question how he had achieved that position, and allowed himself to remain there, lacking the desire to be any other way. The earth pressed hard against his bare frame. The wind chilled him to his soul. The rustling of the trees brought him pain.

His fingers brushed against something hard and metal. He turned to look and saw one of his mala on the ground next to him. It was dim, and Zenyatta felt no energy from it. He touched it again, and it did not return to life. Approaching fear, he sat up and grasped it in both hands, _willing_ it into working order.

It remained as it was – a sphere of dead metal.

Zenyatta noticed the rest of them, scattered around him in a circle. He took them all back toward himself, gathering them in his arms and pleading with them in silence.

They did not come to life. He felt nothing, no piece of himself flowing into them and imbuing them with power. They were dead. Bereft of life.

Which, in a way, meant the same for him.


	2. Saisei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I've extended the chapter count for this story from 2 to 4, as the story kept getting looooonger. Isn't it strange how that just happens?
> 
> This took a lot longer than I'd intended to write (college is eating up a lot more of my time than I'd expected, I'm sure many of you can relate). Don't worry, I've got too many plans for this story to simply give it up.

His shoulders felt barren without his mala draped upon them. He’d carried them with him for so much of his life that he had forgotten how it felt to be without them. The humming of his spirit, once omnipresent in his audials, was gone, and the total silence that had taken its place smothered Zenyatta, pressing down upon him as though possessing a physical presence.  

Dr. Ziegler sat before him, speaking in tones of concern, and as she spoke her voice seemed to drift past Zenyatta as though repulsed by him, forcing the omnic to listen with intent as her words floated by. “And this only just happened?” Dr. Ziegler asked again. Zenyatta smothered an annoyed response.

“Yes,” he said, staring at the inert metal sphere still cradled in his hands, the rest of which were scattered on the bed next to him. “I was… I was meditating in the garden. I came immediately.”

Dr. Ziegler – Angela, Zenyatta decided – leaned forward on her chair to study the mala in Zenyatta’s grasp. She didn’t pretend that she knew how to fix it; perhaps Winston would be of more assistance.

If she were being entirely honest, Zenyatta frightened her now, not because of anything that he had done but because of what had happened to him, of all people. From the moment he’d accompanied Genji’s return to duty, Zenyatta had proven to be an element of peace among the chaos that ran through the halls of Gibraltar – a rock that weathered the world’s tempests with grace and dignity. She had seen him accept people on their worst days with open arms, and with wisdom and gentle guidance, grant them insight in a way that she couldn’t help but admire. Like many others around her, she expected no less from the former Shambali monk.

But as Angela looked Zenyatta up and down, noting with sorrow his withdrawn presence and almost penitent demeanor, she almost wondered if she could help someone as broken down as he.

She chased those thoughts out of her mind. She was a doctor, and her patient suffered before her. If it was within her power to help, then she would do so. “These mala serve to channel your energy, to bridge the gap between your spirit and the Iris, am I correct?” She asked.

“Indeed,” Zenyatta said, grateful that she’d taken the time to understand. “They have been a part of me for many years.”

“Can you still reach out to the Iris without them?”

Zenyatta’s gaze drifted to the mala by his side, and then back to the one in his hands. “I cannot,” he admitted, soft and shameful. “I have tried, and the Iris will no longer tolerate my presence.” It wouldn’t even let him feel it. For a monk such as himself, Zenyatta had always equated a loss of faith to a loss of limbs, but now he’d felt as though he’d lost even more – his sight, his hearing, and his ability to feel with both his hands and his heart. His faith in the Iris had been his foundation for the better part of his life.

Remove that, and what was left of him?

“Zenyatta?” Angela’s gentle call pulled Zenyatta back to himself. “Do you remember anything that happened while you were meditating? Anything that could have caused such a… disruption?” She asked.

Zenyatta cast his thoughts back to that moment, fighting away a rush of anguish but failing to stop the heavy, sinking dread that accompanied it. “Yes, I… I touched the Iris, seeking one… particular presence,” He said, looking down at the mala in his hands. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to look Angela in the eye when telling her what he’d done. He didn’t understand why; it wasn’t as though what he had done was wrong. Since Mondatta’s death, Zenyatta had reached out into the Iris to speak with his brother multiple times for wisdom and guidance. The Iris had never shut him out for doing so, and if anything, he had always left it with an even stronger faith than before.

This was different. Genji was not Mondatta, and somehow that dissimilarity had been the difference between a reinforced faith and a shattered one. Zenyatta clutched the mala tighter, so much that he felt his fingers creak. He couldn’t stand the idea that his faith, his _foundation_ , could be prone to such a sudden, simple collapse.

Angela seemed to notice his turmoil, for she spoke up then. “What was this ‘presence’ you were seeking?” She asked. “Were you hoping to speak to Mondatta again?”

Zenyatta shook his head, a near-imperceptible movement. “No. Not this time.”

It didn’t take more than an instant for Angela to understand. “Genji,” she breathed. “Oh, Zenyatta…”

Zenyatta felt himself shrink even further. “I was hoping I could speak with him. For a moment, I felt him, but the Iris… it would not permit us to make contact.” He made a sighing sound. “When I returned to my body, I could no longer feel a connection, and my mala… you can see what happened.” He held up the mala in his grasp with one hand, and with his other hand beckoned to the lifeless conduits nearby that he’d carried with him for so long.

Zenyatta’s faith was all he’d ever known, ever since the dark, frightening days at the genesis of his life when hate and prejudice surrounded him like a swarm of so many insects. Mondatta had saved him from those trying times and given him something to believe in, a place to hang his proverbial hat. If not for Mondatta, and the words of unity and equality that he’d woven so skillfully into sanctuary, Zenyatta wasn’t certain he would have lived to see the present day.

He would have never met Genji, who may have remained forever lost within the darkest abyss of his soul. If Zenyatta and Genji had never met, would Genji have survived? Would he yet live, in the today of another world? Zenyatta yearned to know that he would have found his own way regardless, and yet he felt part of himself rebel against those thoughts, a darker aspect that he didn’t allow into the light of day.

If he and Genji’s paths had never intertwined, and Genji had survived regardless, then Genji truly wouldn’t have needed him. His life would have been filled with strife, but Genji was always strong underneath his inner turmoil. He would have found his own way with no need for Zenyatta’s guidance, or his companionship. Although it was egocentric, Zenyatta did not like that idea. Life had been hard without Genji, harder than he’d been able to admit before, and to know that Genji may have been able to thrive without him…

“Zenyatta.”

Zenyatta sat up at the sound of the command, catching Angela’s gaze. She stared back, eyes full of worry. “My apologies,” Zenyatta murmured. “I did not intend to let my focus stray.”

“You were shaking like a leaf, Zenyatta,” Angela said, softly. “What were you thinking about that troubled you so much?”

For a while, Zenyatta was quiet. Then, quiet and defeated, he whispered, “Genji.” He felt Angela lay a tender hand upon his leg.

“You are not alone, Zenyatta. We all miss him dearly,” Angela said. Her eyes betrayed her sorrow, but she had already shed enough tears. Now she needed to be strong for everybody else, and for Zenyatta. “There’s no shame in feeling grief. It’s a human emotion.”

“I understand,” Zenyatta said.

“I’m not entirely sure you do,” Angela replied. Zenyatta looked at her, and she understood perfectly the confusion his face could not convey. “I’ve been asking around about you for some time. Everybody says you keep to yourself now. Have you been closing yourself off from everyone else?” She leaned in closer. “We’re all concerned, Zenyatta. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Zenyatta was surprised. He hadn’t been aware that they were singling him out. Perhaps it was only natural, considering what had happened. “I…” He opened his mouth to apologize, then stopped. He didn’t feel like apologizing. He’d lost someone dear to him, someone he’d hoped never to live without. Didn’t he deserve to hurt?

“I wasn’t aware I was disappointing so many people,” he said. It came out bitter and he didn’t regret saying it. For an instant, surprise and hurt flickered across Angela’s face, but then her expression turned firm.

“I never said it was your fault,” she replied, the phantom of an edge evident in her words. She was undoubtedly a kind and good woman, but war was hell and she hadn’t survived it by being soft. “We’re worried about you, Zenyatta, every one of us. This isolation of yours will not help anybody. Not us, and not you. I know that you know better than that.”

Zenyatta recoiled: a small movement, as though she’d struck him lightly on the head. In her eyes, he could see many things. There was sadness, a great deal of it, as well as regret, shame, a sense of weariness. He remembered how she looked during the funeral, not as long ago as he felt it had been, how fragile she’d seemed, as though the touch of a single finger would send her falling. For as long as Zenyatta had known her, she and Genji had been close. They shared a connection – one that could only be known when someone faced down the Veil of Death itself to protect someone else’s life. As she’d stood before Genji’s coffin, Zenyatta had known that even though she had long grown used to death following her like a curse, this loss would plague her for many long years to come.

Now, he could see in her once again. When Genji had died, it wasn’t just Zenyatta who had lost somebody precious to him. Somehow, in his despair – and he _had_ been despairing, he could finally admit – Zenyatta had forgotten that. They walked their own paths, and addressed their sorrow in their own ways, but they had all lost their friend when Genji’s heart stopped beating.

Zenyatta broke eye contact with Angela and sagged, as though something forced him down. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice scarcely above a whisper. “I believed my wounds would be unmade in time, but without Genji… I’m lost.”

Angela’s hand lifted and alighted gently on Zenyatta’s shoulder. “Losses like this take time to heal, Zenyatta. We miss him, too,” she said. “I think it would be wise for you to start spending time with everyone again. What you’re doing isn’t good for you, Zenyatta.” She stopped for a moment, then continued, “Genji would want you to live, and be happy.”

Zenyatta looked up at her again. The sadness and regret in her gaze still shone through, but there now there was a drive in Angela’s eyes as well. The same determination that drove her to save lives on the battlefield was evident again now, and Zenyatta felt the coldness surrounding him recede, as though she chased it away with her gaze.

Dr. Angela Ziegler had been through much in her life. She’d seen and lived through warzones which would – and did – drive ordinary men mad. She’d felt life slip away through her fingers, even as she fought to preserve it. She was tired and on many days she felt it, but she was a doctor, and Zenyatta knew that if she could walk through such dark abysses and come out with her spirit and her drive intact, then she could only be called one of the strongest people alive. If she wanted to help Zenyatta, then he knew better than to resist her.

Zenyatta inhaled a deep breath, and though he didn’t have lungs to take in air, he felt a sense of being cleansed regardless. He felt a flicker inside himself of something he’d lost, something made of hope and faith, and he took it into his grasp, and felt the cold heaviness pushing down upon him lessen. It hadn’t disappeared, but he felt as though it was now something he could carry a little more easily.

He held the mala in his grasp up higher, until it was on level with his eyes. He gathered the scraps of his soul, reveling in their familiar warmth, and projected that warmth into the sphere of metal. Deep inside of it, a speck of light flickered into being, brushing against the light from Zenyatta’s soul with a divine promise.

The light inside continued to shine, small but bright, and Zenyatta felt it in the depths of his soul… but the sphere in his trembling hands did not return to life.

Zenyatta gripped the mala even tighter as if to could force more of himself into it, but it was no use. The pinprick within did not grow to encompass his soul as it once had. He made a soft, keening sound and pressed the orb against his bowed forehead. The despair he’d held back momentarily resumed its crushing brutality.

“Zenyatta? Zenyatta!” Angela called to him in alarm, grabbing his bicep and shaking him as hard as she dared. “What’s wrong, Zenyatta?! Speak to me!”

“It… it won’t accept me back,” Zenyatta whispered. He crushed the sphere against his forehead in desperate agony. “I can feel the Iris once again, but it denies me still. A single drop of its infinite ocean is all that it will grant me.”

Angela’s face fell with sorrow. “Zenyatta…”

“I’m… being punished. I must be,” Zenyatta said. His voice crackled, as though he struggled to force out the words. “I abandoned my faith in the Iris, and now as retribution it seeks to brand me as a heathen. I lost my way, _I’ve lost my way…_ ”

“Zenyatta!” Angela snapped suddenly. Zenyatta jolted up to see her face pulled back in an angry line. “Don’t you dare think that! This is _not_ your fault, and this is _not_ a punishment. I don’t know everything that the Shambali believe about the Iris, but I’ve never heard of anyone being disowned from it forever. Have you, Zenyatta?” Somewhere in Zenyatta’s clouded brain, he found the ability to shake his head dumbly. “Good. Now remember, everyone on this base is here for you, Zenyatta. You are _not_ alone. Can you think of anything, any reason at all, that you may be unable to reach the Iris?”

Zenyatta thought back to his earliest days with the Shambali, when he was still young in so many things. He recalled the struggles he faced: the physical trials to discipline his body, the sermons and teachings to strengthen his mind, and the long, solitary nights of meditation to refine his soul. Like a cup being cast to hold water, the Iris had tempered Zenyatta and shaped him into a vessel. He knew this, and seeked to grow under its watchful eye, that one day he may dip his hands in its waters and wash himself within it, and share in the knowledge of a universe that despite its appearance of disunion was in fact one in all things and everything.

He’d once held that knowledge, but in his moments of weakness he’d allowed it to drain through his fingers. Even so, what he’d believed to be the ensuing disavowal may have merely been a return of sorts, to a lower level of enlightenment. That was… disheartening, to be sure. But it wasn’t an end to Zenyatta or to his faith. He had come from this place before, with the Shambali. The people among him now were not the brothers and sisters he’d known the first time, but that didn’t make them less worthy of the title. With their presence supporting him, Zenyatta believed he could reforge his path to the Iris. It would not be the path he’d once taken, but it would be his own nonetheless.

Genji was dead, and he would be remembered and mourned for many more years, but Zenyatta still lived, and there was much that he could still do, and that which needed to be done.

The burden on Zenyatta’s shoulders did not lift at that moment, but suddenly he found it much easier to carry. Angela, perhaps in response to some external change in his demeanor, said, “Zenyatta? Have you thought of something?”

 A soft chuckle bubbled up from within Zenyatta, and letting it out felt wonderful. “I have thought of many things, my friend,” he said. “And I believe I have found my reason to walk onward. I apologize for any uncertainty I may have caused you, Dr. Ziegler.”

Angela blinked, a bit stymied. “Oh! Well, I’m glad you’re in better spirits. What decision have you come to?”

Zenyatta lifted the mala until it sat between them. “You were correct, my friend. The Iris has not exiled me, as I led myself to believe. In the wake of Genji’s death, I denied my grief, and that denial cast me out of harmony, and clouded my sight to the truth I held dear. I seek now to relearn what I have forgotten, from the mind of an acolyte, so that someday I may gaze upon the Iris once again.” He reached out into the mala once again. The pinprick of light had neither grown nor faded.

That, he decided, was a hopeful sign.

Angela’s lips turned up into a small smile. “I’m happy for you, Zenyatta,” she said, and then the happiness on her face left as quickly as it had come. “However, if your mala will not respond to you, then I have no choice but to place you on medical leave, Zenyatta. Do you understand this?”

“I do. I will try to reach enlightenment once again before too long. I don’t wish to cause further worry.”

“Don’t ever feel like you need to force yourself, Zenyatta,” Angela said, but she smiled in earnest. “I assume we’ll all be seeing much more of you in the coming days, then?”

“Indeed you shall. That I promise,” Zenyatta said, voice light with rediscovered serenity. He gathered his mala into his arms and walked back out into the world. The earth beneath his feet sent a quivering through his soul, and already he felt as though he’d recovered a part of who he had been before.


	3. Kintsugi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody. Been a while, hasn't it? I hear there's a new hero going around - always a welcome addition.
> 
> Enough of that, here you go!

Although Zenyatta would never proclaim that his existence as an omnic made him superior to humans, he couldn’t deny that there were some aspects of it that he appreciated. As he meditated in the garden, allowing the early, early morning air to wash over him, he was grateful that he didn’t require sleep as humans did. At this time of night, the stars shone a different pattern than they did when others were still awake to see them. Zenyatta was grateful that he could witness that unnoticed beauty.

Zenyatta turned his focus from the heavens to the earth, to the mala in his hands. It did not shine as it once did, but Zenyatta could feel the light inside of it; it had grown larger and brighter over the last month as Zenyatta nurtured it and himself back to his former glory. With every word exchanged between himself and his friends, and every moment he spent alone in renewal, the flame’s renewal was furthered as well. When he reached into it now, he felt the Iris’ familiar warm embrace around him.

The Iris’ touch wasn’t as deep as it once had been; it graced his outer shell, but his inner workings remained in shadow. He had drawn close to his faith again, but he’d yet to be accepted back in full. The Iris’ infinite knowledge, once welcome to him, remained out of his limits.

And his mala would not return to life.

Most of the others had been understanding when they had learned of his setback. Dr. Ziegler’s authority could not be overturned, so they’d accepted her judgement and his words and offered condolences and encouragement. But there were dissenters – mostly Torbjorn and Zarya who, being already opposed to his involvement, decried him as useless without his ability to fight. Jack, who had made a genuine effort at first to sympathize with him, also grew impatient as time wore on and Zenyatta remained unable to serve. There were even times when everyone else seemed to be growing restless with him as well.

Zenyatta knew that haste would not benefit his recovery. What mattered was reforging that path to enlightenment to replace the one that he’d strayed from. Even if that took an overlong time, it was no reason to feel shame. Compared to his previous studies as a Shambali acolyte, the progress he’d made thus far was excellent – what he’d achieved in one month now had taken him years before.

However, he couldn’t deny that it felt different when people were counting on him to succeed. The pressure was a guest not present from last time, and Zenyatta could feel it growing heavier upon him as the days drifted by. Even so, Zenyatta knew that the Iris would not be rushed, and he continued walking the path that would one day bring him back to its shores.

The stars faded away as the sky became the deep blue of early dawn. Zenyatta uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet, feeling refreshed after the long night of meditation that had gone by. He gathered his mala and tucked them back into their cloth knapsack, then walked back toward the base. He knew a decent number of his brethren would already be awake – Jack, Lena, Fareeha, Reinhardt, likely Hanzo, possibly more. He’d spent more time with them as of late, but he still felt as though there was much left to make peace with.

He passed by Genji’s room and went inside, setting the knapsack by the door. It was still sparse, for nothing else had been added to it, but neither did it feel as empty as it once did. Zenyatta had visited many times in the past month. He would meditate, surrounded by objects that carried the last faint remains of Genji’s earthly presence. Each one stirred up memories and feelings, snapshots of Genji’s life that Zenyatta swore he would carry with him even beyond his passing into the Iris.

The memories had finally stopped being a burden to Zenyatta. He accepted that he could never share them with people in their raw form. They would never know Genji the way Zenyatta did. But he could still carry those memories with him, and use them to shape himself and his deeds in ways that would preserve Genji still.

Genji fought for a world of the harmony that Zenyatta had shared with him, and the justice that was his own. Zenyatta knew that from now on, his duty would be the same. Through his works, Genji would live.

Zenyatta turned his gaze to the sword upon the wall. No matter how much time he’d spent in the room, the sight of Genji’s katana, deprived of its master forevermore, still pained Zenyatta. He knew that Genji would hate the idea of it being used as mere decoration. He would insist that it be treated with the reverence it deserved. Unfortunately, the only person who could grant it that treatment now rested below the earth, and could never take up its glory again.

As Zenyatta turned to leave, he thought he saw something flicker on the scabbard. He moved closer to look, leaning in until he could see his reflection in its jet-black surface. He reached up absently until his right hand brushed against the metal.

Beneath his fingers, the scabbard shimmered a faint green. He felt something small flow into him, moving like a thought from his hand to his core. It rippled outward through him like a chill, sending him stumbling back. As it vanished from inside of him, he thought he heard a distant sound, like… a _roar._

Zenyatta gasped. “Genji…” He heard himself murmur. He gazed upon the sheathed blade for a moment further, then as if he were programmed to do so, he pulled it from its hanging place.

The room lit up like a star with green light, overwhelming Zenyatta’s optic sensors. He cried out in pain and shut them off.

Against the blackness, he could still see the light. It had dimmed to something gentler but still glorious and vibrant, and it seemed to beckon to him. In the darkness of his mind’s eye, Zenyatta reached out a hand to the light. Something inside of the brightness stirred – something alive.

Zenyatta knew what the green light was. He knew that it was something he could not have been drawn to so closely. Genji had spoken of this before, in a memory that right then seemed so small and far away.

_Only a Shimada could control the dragons._

And yet, as Zenyatta drew back in reverence and fear, a beautiful green dragon unfurled to its full length. Towering over the monk, the dragon met Zenyatta’s gaze with its own, and its eyes were universes all to themselves, beholden to glories that even Zenyatta had never witnessed before.

There was sadness in those eyes, Zenyatta realized. Raw and unfathomable, pressing down upon him as though seeking to force him to his knees. He fought against the sorrow, and met the dragon’s eyes with his own.

“Greetings, spirit,” he said, light and pleasant. “I did not expect to meet you face to face. May I ask what troubles you?”

The spirit keened, a low sound that Zenyatta felt in his chest. It carried emotions and memories that Zenyatta understood very well. “You miss him,” Zenyatta noted. “You miss Genji, for he was your master. Have you been waiting for his return?”

Another long, deep sound. Zenyatta tilted his head. “Ah, I apologize,” he said. “Then this sword has been your prison since his passing. You’ve been waiting someone to release you.” He bowed his head. “I am honored that I could serve you so.”

The dragon made an inquisitive noise.

“Indeed. Your master was my pupil for many years. It was an honor to be his friend,” Zenyatta replied, adding softly, “I miss him deeply as well.”

The two stared at each other for some time – how long, Zenyatta had no idea, for the chronometer within him did not respond. The creature studied him, peering far beneath his metal shell and into the soul inside. It had been a long time since Zenyatta had seen Genji’s dragon. He’d assumed that with Genji’s demise the dragon had returned to its dwelling beyond, but it had been so close and no one had ever realized. Would it have remained in Genji’s katana forever had Zenyatta not set it free?

The dragon rumbled. It seemed to regard Zenyatta in a different way than before.

A pang ran through the omnic’s chest. “No. I am sorry, but Genji rests beyond my reach,” he told the dragon. “He has passed into the Iris, and I have been… struggling as of late to reach him. I wish that I could help you.” He felt ashamed. This spirit, fated to stay by Genji’s side for all his days, had been torn from its master all too soon. He understood that pain.

The dragon growled softly. Zenyatta would have blinked, if he could. “Together? I’m afraid I do not understand,” he said. The dragon growled again. “Become… as one? That will allow me – I apologize, allow us to find Genji?”

A sound of assent.

Zenyatta felt hope bubble up within his chest, and he allowed it to remain. “Great spirit, you honor me with your aid. What must I do to help you?” The dragon rumbled, and Zenyatta was confused. “Genji’s blade? What do you…” His voice trailed off. He’d been so enraptured by the spirit dragon before him that he’d forgotten how they’d been able to meet.

He had Genji’s sword. Even with optics still offline, he could feel its weight and form in his hands. He spun it around so his right hand gripped the hilt and his left hand cupped the sheathed blade.

The dragon drew closer to Zenyatta. He could feel its anticipation surround him like a force of nature. It let out an excited sound.

Zenyatta chuckled. “Patience, please, my friend. This will take time,” he said. He allowed his soul to escape from his body, seeking the Iris. The ember flickered into existence, larger and bolder than before but still far away.

When the dragon saw the shimmering light, its eyes ignited and it nearly destroyed Zenyatta’s audials with a roar that sank deep into the monk’s frame. The dragon opened its mouth and a brilliant, emerald green streak of flame erupted out of it like a comet. The flaming radiance struck the ember, and Zenyatta felt his own chest burning in agony.

The pain made Zenyatta cry out, but then it disappeared as quickly as it had come on as something inside of him unlocked. He didn’t know what had changed, only that something trapped inside of him for so long had given away at last. He reached out with his soul once more.

And monk and spirit were bathed in golden light as the Iris flowed around them. Zenyatta sensed the dragon’s sudden anxiety and calmed it with a touch, feeling the dragon’s energy wind itself around his arm and spread across his own spiritual presence. His six ethereal arms appeared around him as though they had never been gone, and with them Zenyatta grasped the fabric of the universe and pulled it closer, causing existence to shrink around him.

Zenyatta gathered the universe into his hands and held it close, and then turned his attention to the infinity beyond. Surely, Genji was out there somewhere.

The dragon seemed to agree, for it extended outward from Zenyatta in search of its master. Zenyatta allowed it to guide him, reaching out with his own spirit to aid it. Eternities flashed by them and crumbled into nothing as they searched.

Somewhere in the endless reaches of the existence, Zenyatta felt something familiar. The smell of cherry blossoms. The ringing of a swung sword.

The voice he loved so dearly.

Zenyatta and the dragon traveled as one toward the voice. They could hear it calling them now, increasingly clear. Zenyatta reached out across the infinite span of existence, and with the dragon empowering him he reached even further. A veil fell away from them, and they emerged into a blinding white light. As Zenyatta’s vision adjusted, a hand took his own in a tender grasp. Somebody spoke.

“ _Master?_ ”

-

Hanzo stood in the doorway to Genji’s bedroom and stared at the motionless omnic that clutched Genji’s katana. He’d already tried to remove the blade from its grasp, and then to get its attention, but it refused to respond to anything he did. He’d had to step away from it – not because he’d surrendered but because he could feel _something_ coming from the omnic, some sort of power that agitated the dragons entwined around his soul. There was only one thing he’d ever heard of that caused that to happen, but-

No, it was impossible. Genji was dead, and only a Shimada could control the dragons, much less a robot that called itself a monk and yet for a month now had failed to serve as even that.

Although Hanzo forced himself not to express it, the sight of the omnic clutching his brother’s sword angered him. His brother’s death was painful, but he had died well in combat for a noble cause. He had earned rest, and his sword had earned the right to be honored by all who saw it. That this so-called _monk_ would profane it so by taking it from its resting place was despicable.

Hanzo and Genji had not been close in life, but Hanzo would not allow someone as unwelcome as the omnic to stain the last remnant of his brother’s life. With a growl, he moved to take the sword from the omnic again, to rip it from his hands if he had to.

He moved no more than a few steps before the omnic unsheathed the sword a fraction of an inch and its body exploded into light, flinging Hanzo back into the hallway. The elder Shimada struck the wall and fell, and recovering quickly he stared into the room in disbelief. The monk _glowed_ with an ethereal green aura that cast shadows around the room and flooded out into the hallway, but more than that Hanzo saw the dragon.

_Genji’s_ dragon. It flew around the room in a tight circle to avoid the walls, sweeping the room’s meager possessions around like a cyclone, and yet the omnic at the epicenter was untouched. Hanzo watch it move at last, and it looked up at the dragon in a way that Hanzo couldn’t identify (he couldn’t have known of the surprise Zenyatta had felt at seeing his student’s dragon coiling around him, nor how honored he’d been to hear the spirit’s call, to receive its aid (nor the **_triumph_** he’d experienced mere moments ago)).

Genji’s dragon let out a roar, and Hanzo (and Zenyatta) felt its joy wash over them before it dove down between the katana’s sheathe and its hilt, disappearing into the exposed part of the blade. In a heartbeat, the green light faded away, leaving behind the mess that been made of Genji’s room and the omnic monk standing in the middle of it all with a sense of serenity.

Zenyatta slid the sheathe back down over the blade and let out a sigh. In his soul, he felt the touch of the Iris, as warm and welcome as he remembered. Everything had come back into its place. He could call himself whole again.

“Genji…” he murmured, feeling the last remnants of his student’s arms wrapped around him as they whispered sweet nothings. He would miss that feeling, but knowing that Genji was not truly gone, and that they could meet again, left him lighter than he had felt in a long time.

He looked at Hanzo, standing in the doorway. “My friend, I apologize for the mess,” he said, bowing his head in respect. “I assure you, I will clean everything-”

“You.”

Hanzo’s voice was low and forcefully tempered, and Zenyatta could tell that he was working to keep his emotions in check. The archer’s lips pulled back into a snarl. “Why do you have his sword? What did you do?!” He growled, stepping forward as though yearning to attack Zenyatta.

Zenyatta remained still, showing no fear or intimidation in his stature. “I spoke with him,” he replied, and the rage in Hanzo’s face turned to shock. “Genji’s sword has been a vessel for his dragon ever since his death. It spoke to me, and I released it. In return, it helped me find Genji within the Iris. He told me to give you his greetings.”

At the mention of his brother, Hanzo’s anger resurfaced. “You insult my brother’s memory with lies! Only the Shimada have the power to control the dragons! They would never accept an _omnic!_ ” He spat the word like a curse. His left hand twitched; the hand he used to grip his bow. Zenyatta knew that a conflict was at hand, and that he presently stood little chance against Hanzo Shimada.

Zenyatta chuckled and lowered his arms, still clutching Genji’s katana in his right hand. “Peace, Hanzo Shimada. I meant no disrespect to your clan or your brother. His dragon desired to see its master as I desired to see my student. Our union served as a means of achieving what we could not alone.”

_And nothing else_ , said the implications behind those words. But even before Zenyatta had spoken them, he’d felt a rumbling deep inside of himself that he’d never felt before. There was another presence inside of him now, and it made him wonder if he truly wasn’t lying after all.

Hanzo narrowed his eyes at Zenyatta, scrutinizing him. Zenyatta couldn’t but think that was unfair – what had he done to deserve such distrust? – but he said nothing. Whether Hanzo Shimada liked it or not, he and Genji shared a unique stubbornness. The most masterful of words and arguments would not move them if they did not want to be moved.

Then the tension drained from Hanzo’s form as he allowed Zenyatta to move him. “The dragons would never submit to someone like you,” he said quietly, as though saying it for his own benefit and not to Zenyatta. “That weapon does not belong to you. You will allow it to remain on these walls. Anything else would dishonor Genji.” He moved into the room to take the blade from Zenyatta’s hands.

Before Zenyatta could respond, the presence inside of him roared its disagreement – a feeling that Zenyatta could not find it in himself to oppose. It thrashed about within the monk, yearning to lash out at the man before them who would separate them from the last remnant of the man they’d loved in life.

Hanzo’s hand reached for the katana. In what he would later deem an irrational decision, Zenyatta loosened his grip on the force within him.

The elder Shimada recoiled suddenly, grunting in pain and surprise. The dragon tattoos on his left breast began to glow an unearthly blue and rise from his skin. Hanzo and Zenyatta watched them writhe about and roar in pain. They seemed to focus on Genji’s katana, and when Zenyatta looked down at it, he saw Genji’s dragon wrapped around it. It snarled at the other two dragons with a protective fury – repelling them from its newfound home.

Hanzo threw himself back at the entrance to Genji’s room, and all three of the dragons faded away. He panted as though emerging from a vicious battle, and glared at Zenyatta with reawakened rage. “You… you honorless machine!” He snarled, whipping the bow from his back, docking it, and readying an arrow, all in one fluid motion. “My brother spoke highly of you, and you disgrace him with your lies and thievery! You take what does not belong to you, and from your own student!”

He pulled his bowstring taut and aimed for Zenyatta’s right shoulder. The monk’s posture remained serene despite his internal fear. He had no understanding of how to wield Genji’s katana, let alone well enough to defeat the elder Shimada, and without his mala he had no way to defend himself.

But the dragon inside of him growled in defiance and Zenyatta couldn’t bring himself to release Genji’s sword. There was a sudden and familiar twinge in his soul. He alighted with understanding and pulled on the new feeling as hard as he could.

A loud _BAM_ smashed through the air and Hanzo dropped like a stone, releasing the arrow as his aim dropped. It shot forward and embedded in the floor between him and Zenyatta, and Hanzo fell prone nearby. A sphere of metal struck the ground and rolled toward Zenyatta’s feet.

Zenyatta looked down at his mala, somehow unable to comprehend what had happened. He extended his soul toward it, and it ignited in an instant. He remained dumbfounded for a moment longer… and then laughed.

“My friend, you have kept me waiting,” he said, warm and jovial. He reached out and felt the others by the door, still congregated in his knapsack. They lit up in response and flew into the room, stopping before him in an imperfect circle with a single space at the bottom.

The mala on the floor ascended into the empty space to complete the halo. Zenyatta bowed his head, and the mala floated around his neck and settled upon his shoulders. For a sliver of a moment, Zenyatta felt himself expand and hollow out so the Iris could replenish him, and then the feeling disappeared into the back of his processor.

The dragon brushed against one of the mala, and the sphere flickered green as the two forces mingled and then pulled apart. If the spirit had held any reservations before, it seemed calm now.

Voices wafted down the hall toward Genji’s room. Zenyatta felt sheepish; no doubt that his quarrel with Hanzo had roused their brethren at this early hour. They would be pleased to see what had become of Zenyatta. Perhaps the reemergence of Genji’s dragon would give them pause, but Zenyatta was certain that they would accept him regardless.

But first, Zenyatta knelt before Hanzo, who had begun to stir. With difficulty, the archer pulled his head upwards to look at the omnic with an angry yet sorrowful gaze. “That is… my brother’s…” Hanzo managed. Zenyatta felt sorry for the man who had only been acting in what he felt was his brother’s best interests. Perhaps on another day, the monk and the archer would have come to a more civil agreement.

“I have spoken of this already, Hanzo Shimada,” Zenyatta replied, firm but lacking anger or judgement. He tightened his grip on the sword, holding between them like a barrier. “My intention has never been to dishonor Genji. I seek to bring him honor by bearing what he has left behind, not allowing it to fade into memory.” He lifted the katana off the ground and held it before himself, cupping his other hand underneath the sheathed blade. “I am sorry, Hanzo, but I will be keeping Genji’s sword and his dragon. I will carry them until the time has come for me to depart into the Iris myself, and I will ensure that they find a worthy successor. If Genji still lived, I am certain that he would fully support my decision.”

Genji’s dragon – now Zenyatta’s – growled with pride. The omnic rose to his feet and left to greet his friends. He had much to speak of.


	4. Kekkon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody! Been a long ride, huh? (Too long, I know.) I hope this ending is everything you wanted and more.
> 
> (FYI, "aikata" means "companion" and from what I've read is a way Japanese husbands can refer to their wives. Please don't hesitate to correct me if that's wrong.)

As the Talon soldiers’ footsteps sounded from around the crates ahead, Zenyatta’s dragon thrashed and roared with bloodlust. The omnic monk, floating in a serene lotus position, filled his mala with energy and prepared for combat. The contrast, to those capable of sensing it, could not have been greater.

Zenyatta turned his gaze inward and reached out to his dragon. It coiled roughly around his hand, yearning to be let loose. _Remain calm, my friend,_ Zenyatta told the dragon. _I understand that you are restless, but you will have your fight in due time. Be patient, and do as we have practiced._

The dragon within him calmed slightly in response – if a bit petulantly – and it projected its own energy into the orbs, causing them to flicker a beautiful green.

Zenyatta looked upon his dragon with pride. It had proven to be as quick and brilliant a student as its former master, if temperamental at the best of times. They were both still learning exactly how their new coexistence would best function, but in what had felt like no time at all, they had deemed themselves capable of their first mission as one unit.

Zenyatta had faith that they would prevail together.

The first footsoldier rounded the corner, and before he even noticed Zenyatta or anyone else, a mala shot through the air and collided with his chin like a cannonball. There was an accompanying green flash and a loud crack as his jaw broke, and he was unconscious before he hit the wall. The metal ball flew back to rejoin Zenyatta as a small group of more soldiers came into view. They didn’t wait a second before firing, knowing through the elimination of the first that someone was there that should not have been.

Their bullets collided with a curved translucent wall placed down by a large, centaur-like omnic, and the cowboy behind the barrier returned fire, striking three of them and sending two of them to the ground, hurt or dead. Another omnic floated among its allies, its serenity out of place among the panic.

As the barrier began to crack under fire, the centaur robot fired a ball of energy that imploded without warning, yanking the Talon soldiers off their feet as they were dragged together toward its singularity. There was a bright flash as the cowboy threw something, and the second they took to flinch was the last second that they knew.

The omnic launched a volley of metal spheres, each one curving to strike their target in the head. They burst on impact with green light, and the Talon agents were flung backward and collapsed to the ground, laying still.

McCree laughed. “Well shit, that’s gonna come in handy.” He turned toward Zenyatta. “You ‘n that reptile got any more tricks?”

“All in good time, my friend,” Zenyatta chuckled, stroking the sword hanging on his waist with on hand. He turned to Orisa. “Young one, my thanks for your protection. I believe the danger has passed.”

Orisa nodded and held out her hand. The barrier vanished, and the projector flew back into her grasp. “We must continue forward,” she said. “Our objective is further within.”

“Indeed,” Zenyatta hummed. “We shall follow-”

Within his chest, the dragon bellowed in alarm. A moment later, a thick black fog poured over the trio.

“Damnit, fall back!” McCree shouted, his voice muted through the smoke. He tried to leap away, but the cloud filled the area between the shipping containers and there was no way to escape. “Orisa, throw down a wall!” She did so, and all three agents ducked into the pocket of smokeless space it granted them.

McCree growled and cocked his Peacemaker, turning to watch the smoke curl around the shield. “Rat bastard could pop up anywhere. Don’ even blink.”

“Won’t do you any good,” came a withered hiss from somewhere above. The smoke began to rise, and Zenyatta and the others followed its ascent and watched it coalesce into a black-cloaked human form with a bone white mask, clutching a pair of shotguns.

The instant that Reaper appeared, the three below fired upon him –one of Zenyatta’s mala whistled through the air, followed by McCree’s remaining bullets and a stream of energy from Orisa’s cannon. Reaper leaned casually out of the way of the mala and burst into smoke so that the bullets all passed through him. He formed into a tendril and rose into the air before crashing down into the center of the group, then reformed and raised his shotguns against the scattered threesome.

Reaper fired upon Orisa and drove her down. His shotgun pellets sparked against her metallic hide as she fortified herself against him, but even with the protection she couldn’t ignore all of the holes being punched through her, and she collapsed. As McCree rose, Reaper focused upon him instead, firing lazily around the cowboy to toy with him and not at him with the intent to kill. McCree swore and ducked from side to side, unable to raise his gun under fire.

As Reaper threw his emptied shotguns aside, Zenyatta slung an Orb of Discord at him, which tethered and caused the Talon elite to stagger as it forced all his negative thoughts and feelings to the surface at once. Reaper shook off the disarray within moments and readied his new guns, but Zenyatta had bought enough time for McCree to reload and fan his revolver into the dark figure. One bullet struck Reaper in the shoulder, followed by three more in his torso, but he laughed as if they simply tickled him and then surged toward McCree, bursting again into a cloud of smoke and enveloping the cowboy within it.

Zenyatta flicked an Orb of Harmony to Orisa; although it couldn’t repair her, it could soothe the sensation of pain that screamed against her processor, enough for her to raise her cannon. She fired another sphere of energy at the swirling cloud and forced it to implode, catching McCree as he was pulled toward her and then throwing down another barrier to keep Reaper away.

McCree’s skin was pallid, and his hair was gray and wispy; he looked as though he’d aged fifteen years in seconds. Zenyatta tethered another Orb of Harmony to him, although he didn’t know if it could return what Reaper had taken. As Reaper pounded on the shield with shotgun blasts, Zenyatta sent a brief emergency message through his comm to anyone who could respond, mere moments before the barrier shattered.

Reaper produced another pair of shotguns from somewhere within his cloak and studied Zenyatta and the other two. His mask did nothing to hide his scorn. “I wasn’t finished with him,” he snarled. “Give him back.”

“You were hu-hurting him,” Orisa said, her voice skipping. “What di-did you do to hi-hi-him?”

Before Reaper could reply, Zenyatta sent a volley of mala toward him, driving him back against the shipping container. He transformed into smoke once again and flew to the side, coming back together and immediately firing a shotgun blast each at Zenyatta and Orisa. Zenyatta braced himself for the pain, but before the shot connected, his dragon appeared around him in a surge of energy and a loud noise like a reverberating gong.

Reaper struck the ground hard and forced himself back onto his feet, while at the same time Zenyatta’s dragon vanished and a terrible weakness betrayed him. He wavered in his floated position before dropping back to the earth, collapsing onto his knees as he failed to bring his legs down in time.

The dragon let out a quiet keening sound. Sensing its remorse, Zenyatta took hold of the serenity that had yet to flee his soul, and held it against the dragon’s presence. _I am unharmed, my companion. Fear not, for we will emerge triumphant._ Zenyatta told the dragon, who quivered with excitement at the thought of forthcoming victory.

As Zenyatta forced the rest of his soul into tranquility, he wished that he could take some of that energy into himself. He raised his head with difficulty and forced his gaze toward his allies. The dragon had stopped Reaper’s attack on its master, but it did not protect Orisa; the shotgun blast had caved in the right side of her face, leaving behind damaged, crackling circuitry and a uselessly flickering eye. She twitched and made a broken whining sound, but did not move to Zenyatta’s defense.

McCree was still cradled in her arms, taking shallow, forced breaths. The cowboy turned his head toward Zenyatta, and the usual gleam of confidence in his eye was gone, replaced by fear and sadness.

He didn’t think they could win. And as Reaper rose to his feet, groaning but still ready to finish what he’d begun, Zenyatta thought that maybe McCree was correct.

“Goddamn _tin can…_ ” Reaper growled, glaring a legion of daggers at Zenyatta. “I’ll kill you first.” He strode forward until he stood right in front of Zenyatta, and held a shotguns inches from Zenyatta’s helm. His finger curled around the trigger.

Zenyatta’s dragon roared in defiance, a stark contrast to Zenyatta’s eternally calm exterior. He reached into the depths of his soul, feeling the Iris pool around his hands, and he prepared to transcend. It would allow him to survive his execution and restore his and Orisa’s strength at least. He didn’t know if it could undo what had happened to McCree, but even with only himself and one ally, the fight may yet unfold down a different path.

Something stirred within the Iris, and a pair of hands gripped his. _Master, it warms my heart to see you fighting once more. Allow me to fight by your side again._

Without hesitation, Zenyatta plunged into the Iris and felt familiar arms enfold him.

In the real world, his body exploded into a sun of green and gold light. Reaper flinched back and covered his eyes with one arm, and in that moment of vulnerability he felt something tear into his body as though intending to cut it in half. He fell to his knees, dropping his shotguns, and saw particles of himself flowing like ashes from a long, wide gash across his torso. His body was numb – after growing accustomed to the constant agony that accompanied his new body, the lack of it felt wrong.

A deafening roar pounded against his eardrums, and he looked up to see a dragon flying in circles above the shining mass. It let out another roar, and its green scales molted from its sides and underbelly in long streaks and vanished into light. New scales, as bright gold as the metal itself, shone in stripes where the dragon’s old scales used to be, and its crest had faded into the same brilliant sheen as well.

The dragon, born anew, flew down and wrapped itself around the arm of its master – an arm that now carried a katana with an edge that shimmered between gold and green as light struck it. Reaper caught the figure’s eye, and for a moment saw the face of the younger Shimada whose life he’d ended.

Then the figure pointed its blade at Reaper and the ninja faded, revealing the monk he’d nearly killed moments before. He stood tall above his kneeling adversary, holding the katana like he’d wielded it for his entire time of existence, seemingly heedless of its weight.

Despite his failing body, Reaper let out a guttural sound. “ **You… piece of rust _._** You want to send me to your _heaven_? You won’t kill me, nothing can. _Nothing ever will._ ”

Zenyatta looked down upon him. “Perhaps not today. However, the Iris awaits all things. It will be patient,” he said. The monk’s face could display no emotion, but he trusted that the anger and righteousness that he felt would come through to the agent of death regardless. “This sword, and this dragon, belonged to Genji Shimada, my apprentice… and my dearest friend. You stole his life, but from now on I will see that you take nothing from anyone ever again.”

He brought the sword up and swung it down in a single stroke, cleaving Reaper in half. As the enforcer of Talon disintegrated into ash, Zenyatta’s dragon extended from the blade and bit down upon the remains.

There was a flare of light, and when it faded, Reaper had disappeared.

The dragon flew upward and curved toward Orisa and McCree, both of whom laid still. It let out another roar and then began to glow, in waves of light that washed over the omnic and the cowboy and coated them entirely. Before Zenyatta’s eyes, their injuries and weaknesses reversed themselves; Orisa’s broken circuitry repaired and the holes shrank and faded away, while McCree’s body grew strong once more, the years that it had lost being restored.

When that was done, the beast returned to its master and curled around him, letting out an uncertain growl. Zenyatta reached out and stroked its head. “Thank you for helping them, my friend. And do not worry, the Iris will yet greet the Reaper, if not by our hand then by another’s,” he said. He chuckled and looked up at his dragon, taking in the streaks of gold running down its form that proved its metamorphosis. “I am truly blessed to have a companion such as you at my side. Genji would have been thrilled to see you like this.”

 _“Master, you would speak of me as though I am gone forever? I’m hurt,”_ came a chuckle from both deep within Zenyatta and just beside him. A transparent arm extended into Zenyatta’s sight and rested against his hand upon the dragon’s face. Zenyatta turned, and met the ghostly visage of Genji Shimada beside him.

Underneath their hands, the dragon tensed, then rumbled with joy.

 _“See, master? You’ve been allowing my dragon too little hope,”_ Genji said. _“You wouldn’t want it to wither like a flower, would you?”_

Zenyatta hummed. “I think you possess too little faith in _my_ dragon. It holds greater resolve than you seem to remember.”

Genji laughed. _“Your dragon, master? The dragon you inherited from me?”_

“Indeed, Genji.” Zenyatta looked upon both of his spirits with pride. “Although perhaps it would be more accurate to deem it… _our_ dragon.”

Genji seemed taken aback for a moment, then gently cupped Zenyatta’s cheek with his free hand. _“Very well, then. I can think of no greater reminder of our bond.”_ He seemed to notice something else, and laughed warmly. _“Although, it seems almost unnecessary. One would simply need to look at you for that, master.”_ He pointed to Zenyatta’s chest, where a tattoo of a dragon burned with golden light.

Zenyatta stared down at the design that had not been there before, and caught of his mala – the once blue glow within them all had changed to green, and between them he saw a coiling string of energy, much like a dragon.

He looked upon them, then back at Genji, and wrapped his arms around the spirit of the man he’d loved. “My… Genji. I have missed you,” he said, and no more.

The ghost held Zenyatta as well, and the omnic could feel his arms against his back even if they could not touch. _“As have I, Zenyatta.”_

As the scene held, Orisa and McCree began to stir. The sentinel blinked her optics and looked around. “Mister Zenyatta?” She asked. “What happened? Where is Reaper? And…” Her eyes widened as she took in the dragon curled around her mentor. “What is that thing?”

Zenyatta gently pulled away from Genji, whom Orisa seemed unable to perceive. “Much has happened in the past few moments, my dear. Perhaps I should take the time to explain. I believe I have mentioned something of the Shimada’s dragons…”

* * *

 

“Genji, I assure you, there is no reason to be afraid,” Zenyatta said, stepping into the training range for his first session with Hanzo. “Your brother has given his word that he will not cause me harm. I believe you bore witness to it.” He walked throughout the range, ending at the strip in the middle where Hanzo had told him to meet. The archer was not yet present.

 _“I was, aikata, and I did not believe it then any more than I believe it now.”_ Genji replied, his voice a warm sensation within Zenyatta’s soul. He came and went as he pleased, although usually he was around more often than not. _“Perhaps I should assist you again, to ensure-”_

“Genji, I understand that you have many reasons to distrust your brother, and I love that you care so deeply for my well-being. But I am certain that we both know coddling me will not allow me to grow as I could.” Zenyatta’s voice, though kind as ever, carried light reproach.

 _“I… of course, Zenyatta. As ever, you are correct,”_ Genji admitted. _“But may we speak of this nonsense regarding your name? I cannot understand what you’re thinking, aikata.”_

Zenyatta laughed. “Why, Genji. As I understand, it is customary for two lovers in union to take on a single name. I believe our present state of coexistence more than qualifies. Henceforth, I shall be known as Tekhartha-Shimada Zenyatta.”

 _“Tekhartha-Shimada Zenyatta,”_ Genji repeated flatly. _“That is too long to be a name, my love.”_

“I would still answer to Zenyatta.”

_“That isn’t the point. Why not choose a single name to call yourself? Tekhartha Zenyatta and Zenyatta Shimada are both fine names.”_

“I must disagree, my dearest,” Zenyatta said. “The name Tekhartha was the gift the Iris bestowed upon me for my faith. To rid myself of it would be to deny all that I have become. And yet, I could not be so callous as to not upon the name of the man who shares my soul. Therefore, I accept them both. They are two halves, and they make me complete.”

Genji was silent for a moment. _“But… at least change the order of the two names, please. Shimada Zenyatta – it **rhymes**_ **,** _aikata.”_

Zenyatta hummed. “Does it? I hadn’t noticed,” he said, although Genji refused to believe that. “And for that matter, I believe you just did as well.”

Genji audibly sulked.

The sound of footsteps drew Zenyatta’s eye as Hanzo walked up to him. He carried a sheathed katana not unlike the one tied now to Zenyatta’s waist. “You… we begin now,” he said, beckoning Zenyatta to the far end of the strip.

Despite his austere expression, he seemed lost.

Zenyatta walked toward the point that Hanzo had denoted. “Hanzo Shimada has not held a blade in many years, is that right?” He asked.

_“It is,” Genji said. “Ever since the night we fought. But that will not make him any less formidable a foe. Zenyatta, I-”_

“I will be fine, my love,” Zenyatta repeated. “Your brother grants me a great charity, helping me despite the pain it brings him. I trust that he will not cause me harm, so please try and do the same.”

He reached the end and turned to face his opponent. Hanzo drew his katana and held it in a ready stance.

 _“…Very well,”_ Genji said at last. His voice became warm. _“Good luck, aikata.”_

Zenyatta drew his own blade, mimicking Hanzo’s stance. The dragon within him roared.

“I will make you proud,” he murmured.

And the two combatants propelled themselves forward and brought their swords together in a flash of steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. Maybe I'll see you around. Honestly not sure myself, but hope springs eternal, right?
> 
> Until next time, Tomorrow's Hero, signing out.


End file.
